


The Only Song About Language Barriers I Could Think Of is That One By Jason Derulo But I Didn't Want to Use That as a Title

by punkbean



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: M/M, at least remy meets their very high standards, i miss them, wanda and lorna are aggressively supportive of pietro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 11:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkbean/pseuds/punkbean
Summary: Last night, Remy met a man in a club. He was funny, outgoing, charming, and really quite flirty.The man he wakes up with in the morning is fairly different, to say the least. His English is rusty at best, he's skittish, and has a permanent frown on his face. He's still pretty much the most attractive person Remy's ever seen, though, and he plans on flirting as much as possible until he's asked to leave. If he's asked to leave, that is.





	The Only Song About Language Barriers I Could Think Of is That One By Jason Derulo But I Didn't Want to Use That as a Title

Remy woke up two things: confused and very, very hungover.

And he wasn’t sure whose bed he was in.

This wasn’t necessarily unusual. Not even in a sexy way, either – he was taking a break from his home life, and travelling was the perfect way to do just that. He knew he was in Berlin, and he knew he’d gone to a club last night. As he worked through the night in his mind, he started remembering more clearly.

* * *

 For once, Remy wasn’t dancing. The music was all weird European stuff he didn’t know. Granted, it was a club, so as long as it had a strong bass nothing else was important, but this was like being in Eurovision hell.

He was sure most of these songs weren’t even in German, either, but everyone around him seemed to know the words.

Remy decided he needed to be a lot more drunk.

At least in the queue for the bar he didn’t have to feel weird about not dancing or singing. There was a lot of jostling, though, and he ended up practically plastered to someone’s back.

He knew barely any German. Enough to order food and go about his day, but anything more complex was pretty much a lost cause.

“Entschuldigung,” he said into the man’s ear, and he took hold of his shoulders so that they could both keep their balance.

The man didn’t seem alarmed by their proximity. In fact, if anything, he only leaned back further into Remy.

He turned his head and said something in rapid German, but even if Remy had been fluent, he doubted he would have listened. He was too distracted by the fact that he was really, really, _really_ good-looking. In fact, if Remy had been asked to create his personal idea of ‘most attractive man who could possibly exist’, it wouldn’t be far off.

In theory, it didn’t seem like his features should go together. He was tall, and slim enough that his elbow was digging uncomfortably into Remy’s stomach. His skin was dark, but his hair was silvery white and his eyes ice blue. His features were sharp, with a straight jaw, aquiline nose, and devastating cheekbones.

He only noticed that the man was speaking again because his eyes had trailed to his lips. He said something else in German, one sharp eyebrow raised.

Remy suddenly felt stupid. Why the hell hadn’t he learned more German? In all fairness, he hadn’t expected to meet some kind of supermodel.

“I...uh. No Deutsch?” he tried hopefully. God, he wished he’d brought the German phrasebook from the hostel. Maybe it had some pick-up lines.

Understanding dawned on the man. “American?” he asked.

Remy nodded enthusiastically. “How’d you know?”

“Look confused,” the man said, twisting around to pat Remy’s cheek sympathetically. Then he paused, still twisted around like he was made of rubber or something. “My English bad.”

“Your English good! Are you German?” Remy asked. The way he spoke was a bit sharper than most of the Germans he’d spoken to, so he thought no, but he was no linguist.

The man shook his head. “Is complicated,” he said.

By now, they were at the bar, and Remy squeezed his shoulders. “Tequila?” he suggested.

The man looked like he had to consider it for all of a millisecond, then nodded. He said something quickly to the bartender, and soon they were given two shots, a lime, and a salt shaker.

As Remy was shaking some salt onto the back of his hand, he gestured to himself. “I’m Remy,” he said.

The man looked amused. “Like rat.”

“Excuse me?” Remy asked.

“Ratatouille,” he said by way of explanation.

Remy snorted. “Like de rat,” he agreed.

“Pietro,” the man said, pointing to himself.

Remy didn’t have any animated animals to compare his name to, but he didn’t really care.

“Cheers,” he said, lifting his shot glass to clink it against Pietro’s.

“Zhiveli,” Pietro said, and they probably maintained too much eye contact as they licked the salt off their hands and took the shots.

Before they could leave, Remy ordered them two more shots each, this time of vodka. They navigated out of the bar queue, and Remy handed Pietro two of the shots.

“I shouldn’t,” Pietro said, before taking both shots in quick succession.

Remy laughed and took his own shots, leaving the glasses on one of the little tables around the edge of the dancefloor.

After that, everything got fuzzy.

He remembered dancing with Pietro, who seemed to know all the words to all the songs. Despite being an abysmal singer he did not hesitate to sing loudly and enthusiastically.

He met two women who he was pretty sure were Pietro’s sisters. One of them definitely was, they looked so similar, but the other one had an American accent and had striking green hair.

The more Remy thought about her, he remembered being told that he was Pietro’s type, which was nice to know.

After that, everything was fuzzy again until they left the club. It was cold outside, but he vaguely remembered pushing Pietro up against a tree and kissing him until they were both breathless.

 He also vividly remembered thinking that he would marry this man if he was asked. 

He hadn't said anything about that, of course, and they’d come back to Pietro’s flat, where they had to be quiet so they wouldn’t wake his flatmate.

They had had sex, and Remy had no idea if they’d been quiet, but now he was alone in Pietro’s bed.

At least he hadn’t thrown up when he woke up. His head was still pounding, though, and his mouth felt like he’d swallowed wool. First order of business was finding his underwear.

When he turned to find them, he instead found a glass of water on the bedside table.

Maybe it was Pietro’s, but he took a few sips anyway, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t expected to go home with someone last night, but if Pietro was even a fraction as attractive as he remembered from last night, he wasn’t complaining.

As if summoned by the thought, the door handle started to turn at a snail’s pace. Remy might usually have tried to get into a more attractive pose, or pretended to be asleep again, but instead he stayed exactly where he was: hunched over the glass of water, hair like a bird’s nest.

The door soon opened, and a head of silver curls poked through the gap, followed by blue eyes with some impressive dark circles beneath them. Pietro disappeared for a moment, the door slamming shut behind him, and Remy heard footsteps outside. They went away from the door, then back again, and the door opened once more.

“Do you want coffee?” Pietro asked, eyes flicking between his phone screen and Remy.

“Coffee would be great,” Remy agreed, grinning over at him. “Unless you wanted me to leave. Which would be fine.”

Pietro just waved a hand and disappeared from the door again. He was gone for a few minutes, then returned, poking his head around the door. “Do you want sugar or milk?”

“Both, please,” Remy said. “Do you want help?” he tried to ask, but before he could finish, Pietro was gone again.

Remy normally would have gone to help anyway, but he felt like he was stuck where he was. Plus, he was still very naked and he didn't know if Pietro's flatmate was still hanging around.

The next time Pietro returned, he was carrying two mugs. On top of one of them, he was balancing a plate, and he was holding his phone between his teeth.

Remy finally leapt into action, taking a mug and the plate – which had some toast on it – from Pietro so he could stop shuffling along to slowly. Even now that his hands weren't so full, he seemed to be trying desperately not to look at anything below Remy's eye level. 

Remy wasn't self-conscious about being naked, despite Pietro being fully clothed. _Fully_ -fully clothed, too. A jumper and patterned pyjama bottoms. Anyway. Despite his lack of self-consciousness, Remy adjusted himself so that the sheets covered him from the waist down, holding his coffee carefully aloft. The cup was just over half full, and Pietro shot it an apologetic look.

My hands shake after drinking,” he explained, pushing the plate of toast towards Remy. “I don’t want to drop any coffee."

“No, don’t worry bout it,” Remy assured him. “I’m just glad you ain’t kickin me out.”

Pietro stayed quiet, hands wrapped around his mug. When Remy glanced down, he noticed that the coffee was black.

“I don’know how anyone drink dat. Bitter bitter,” he commented.

“Are you American?” Pietro asked after a silence that stretched on for just a couple of seconds too long.

Remy was taken aback by the question, but nodded.

Pietro raised an eyebrow, his nose scrunching up just a bit. God, he was so attractive. It was unfair. “Usually I can understand you better.”

Realisation dawned on Remy. “Oh, you mean de accent? Cher. I’m from New Orleans. And you got a nice accent of your own,” he said with a wink.

Pietro barely reacted. “Did I call you rat last night?” he asked.

“Yeah. You said Ratatouille,” Remy said. Pietro was so much more reserved today than he had been last night. He supposed it was to be expected – everyone was more outgoing when they’d been drinking. He just hoped Pietro didn’t regret it.

Pietro rolled his eyes. “Sorry. My...uh. I have daughter. She likes the film, and it's the only Remy I know,” he said. He shuffled back to sit against the headboard again. The bed wasn’t huge, and their shoulders were touching, and Remy couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“You got a daughter? How old?” he asked, grinning at him.

“Eight. She lives in America now,” Pietro said, staring into his coffee cup. He didn’t seem like he really wanted to talk about it, but Remy wanted to get to know him better, and the only way to do that was by talking about things.

“You miss her?”

Pietro seemed taken aback by the question, but taken aback enough that he nodded without hesitation. “Her mother thinks I’m bad influence.”

“Why’s dat?” Remy asked through a mouthful of toast.

Pietro shot him a look. “Maybe because I do this?” he suggested, gesturing in Remy’s general direction.

“You do dis often?” Remy asked. Maybe he shouldn’t be winding Pietro up, but he was genuinely curious.

For a moment he thought Pietro wouldn’t answer, might even kick him out, but it seemed like he deflated, running a hand through his hair. “No. I mean, one or two times. But not recent. And nothing that her mother knows of,” he said. He was quiet for a moment, then he spoke again. “My sisters only know that I’m not straight for a couple of months.”

“Dey seemed happy last night,” Remy commented. “I mean, I assumed dey were your sisters. Those two enthusiastic women.”

“They try to set me up a lot. They think I need boyfriend or girlfriend. They were excited that I’m bisexual because they can try to put me with more people,” Pietro explained. Though he was obviously trying to sound irritated by the whole thing, the little smile on his face betrayed him, and Remy found himself smiling along with him. He tried to arrange his face into a more neutral expression when Pietro looked over at him, but he was sure he failed miserably. “Do you have siblings?”

“Oh, well. I had a brother but he died a few years back,” Remy said. Rather than dwell on it, he took another bite of toast.

Pietro had a furrow between his eyebrows, and he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like he was trying to figure out what to say.

“Don’ worry about it!" Remy interjected before Pietro could apologise or anything. "I mean, it’s sad, but it was long time ago. And I’m still pretty lucky, non?” he asked, stretching his arm up and around Pietro’s shoulders. “I get to travel. And meet very attractive strangers.”

To his credit, Pietro didn’t tense up or anything. He angled himself towards Remy just slightly, and Remy was once again kind of floored by how attractive Pietro was. Especially his eyes. “I don’t think we are strangers after last night.”

“Pietro. Are you flirtin with me?” Remy asked, breaking into a grin.

Pietro just shrugged nonchalantly, but he looked at Remy out the corner of his eye and smirked at him.

Remy snorted. Two could play at that game. He tightened his arm around Pietro, and turned so that his chin was just about resting on his shoulder. “What’s your surname? I need t’know if it’s a good one in case we get married. Can’t get landed with a shitty surname.”

“We know each other for 12 hours and you talk about marrying?” Pietro asked. He was looking straight ahead, and clearly trying not to smile but failing miserably. “It’s Maximoff.”

Remy hummed. “Remy Maximoff. The name’s Maximoff, Remy Maximoff,” he tried, poking Pietro in the side as he spoke.

Whether Pietro was laughing at the name or the poking he didn’t know. “What’s yours? Maybe it sounds better.”

“LeBeau.”

Pietro had been reaching across Remy, practically draped across him, to put his now-empty mug on the bedside table. He paused when he said that, though. “That’s your name?”

Remy nodded, a little bewildered by the reaction.

“Your name is Remy The Beautiful?”

God, this man was perfect. “Beautiful by name, beautiful by nature,” Remy agreed. He couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss the tip of Pietro’s nose.

“Are you real?” Pietro asked, breaking into the first proper, genuine smile Remy had seen since last night.

If Remy couldn’t resist a handsome man, he definitely couldn’t resist a handsome man who was smiling like that. He slid both arms around him and flipped them over so that he could pin Pietro to the bed, bumping their noses together. “Very real,” he assured him.

Maybe Remy was giving himself too much credit but Pietro looked like all his birthdays had come at once. “You’re like tsar. Ivan the Terrible, Catherine the Great, Remy the Beautiful,” he said, sliding his hands up to press them against Remy’s chest.

“What would you be, then? Pietro the…dilf,” Remy said.

Pietro looked baffled. “Dilf?”

“Oh. You know like a milf?” Remy tried. Maybe he shouldn’t have opened this can of worms.

“What’s a milf?”

Oh, shit. “It…god. It stands for ‘mother I’d like to fuck’. And a dilf is the male equivalent.”

Remy watched as the cogs turned in Pietro’s head, and when it clicked, he gave Remy a withering look. “We already did it, though. Can you still call me a dilf?”

Remy tried to arrange his face into the most innocent smile possible. “I can call you a dilf if I want to do it again, non?”

Pietro looked like he was caught somewhere between laughing and rolling his eyes, but instead, he tangled his fingers in Remy’s hair and pulled him in for a kiss.

Remy was more than happy to reciprocate, and one thing led to another, and then another and another, and half an hour later they were once again laying naked under the covers, trying to catch their breath.

“I tink you’ll always be a dilf to me, Pietro Maximoff,” Remy said, his hand sliding around under the covers until it found Pietro’s and linked their fingers together.

Pietro scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Watch what you say. A few years down de line I might be your husband, cher,” Remy warned, tugging Pietro a bit closer to him.

“I believe that when I see it,” Pietro said. He didn’t look too upset at the thought, though.

And he looked even less upset at the thought four years later as Remy quoted those exact words back at him on their wedding day.

(Pietro pinched him hard between the thumb and forefinger before he could mention the word ‘dilf’ in his wedding vows).

**Author's Note:**

> In hindsight, nothing really happened in this fic, but gamquick is one of my favourite ships in the whole wide world! they have such a fun dynamic, and they both have sexy accents, and most importantly, i love them.
> 
> I know anxf has its problems (fuck peter david) but it was the first non-young avengers comic I read and I think it will always hold a special place in my heart, especially since it really cemented my endless adoration for Remy and Pietro!
> 
> Maybe next time I'll write a fic where stuff actually happens! Who knows. Thank you for reading, if indeed you still are!


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